


To Build a Home

by TheBookshelfDweller



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Circular Narrative, Gen, Implied Johnlock, M/M, Now a two-shot, Playing with narrators, added S3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-01-03 10:57:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBookshelfDweller/pseuds/TheBookshelfDweller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is a buzz, somewhere deep in my foundations, as the cobwebs are unsettled – I have visitors, and what a curious pair, at that. I stir, softly, and greet them – who knows, this might come to something. [...] At times, there are people searching through me, making a mess. They find things, material possessions. Eyes, fingers, tea, toast. But I never let them find the most important of things." From a place to a home, and back again - a story told from the point of view of one of the most famous places in history of literature.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> *Rises from the dead* Hello everyone! So, I hope you enjoy this little one-shot, which is the only thing real-life obligations (funny, that phrase, I actually consider fanfiction quite real, and as such not dissociated from my real life) allowed me to write. Although I'd much rather be working on my three-part series than on "real-life" stuff, I guess I'll have to settle for stealing time to write one-shots for the time being.
> 
> Anyway, characters are not mine, so consider them disclaimed. The title is from Cinematic Orchestra's song of the same name.
> 
> Enojy! :)

221B, Baker Street, London, W1

I'm just a place.

-

I'm a building; a construction of bricks, adhesive materials and metal pipes. There is glass in my windows and wooden panels on my floors. There is dust upon my shelves and my counters. Boring dust, not eloquent one. I have an address. I’m but a space, dead and cold.

-

I’m a rendezvous point.

-

There’s a spark – I might be waking up. I feel warmth, two spots of radiating heat moving within me. My door opens, creaking, and I feel a breeze pirouetting around my dormant interior. My door stretches in a yawn, and my eyes are opened as someone pulls back the blinds. There is a buzz, somewhere deep in my foundations, as the cobwebs are unsettled – I have visitors, and what a curious pair, at that. I stir, softly, and greet them – who knows, this might come to something.

-

I'm a home.

-

I am alive, with hollow bones of lead, and watery blood coursing through, no longer stale, no longer stagnant. I’m a creature with clay muscles, cement tendons, and cellulose skin in various patterns. I have a name.  
Oh, if these walls could talk! I am a witness of life. Of many lives. My floors creek under sets of steps – excited and tired, manic and calm, alive, alive, alive – I know to whom they belong, each of them. My lovely tenants, my beating hearts. How unimaginable it seems now that any other hands should touch my walls. How wrong that would feel. Those hands would be too new, too clean.

I love their hands, and all they do. The ones which are always busy, sometimes gloved and sometimes bloody. He leaves marks, red and yellow, blood and spray paint, all over these walls of mine. I don’t mind. It’s my make-up. He is my impish one. Sometimes I worry for him; he is so reckless, so wild. He is beautiful and mesmerizing, he is my star, yet sometimes I worry for him. I worry, because all stars shine bright by burning themselves up. But not when he is with him, my other one. That’s when I don’t have to worry, because he feeds my star all that is needed to support that blinding shine.

I love their voices, and all they say. Such lovely words, at times, and at others, such harsh ones, too. Oh, but how I love listening to them, to their bickering and their fights, to their jokes and their streams of thoughts. Sometimes there are screams, and those I love less. In the middle of the night, those sleep-stealing yelps – I soak them up in my plaster body. It’s usually my other one who screams. I hold him then, in my cold and dark embrace, because I’m the only one there. He is my grounded one, so much older. But not when he’s with him, not when they are together – then he is younger, he is as old as he is supposed to be. They are each other’s restorations.  
Let’s call them something, shall we? It will be easier to distinguish between them that way. After all, now that I have a name, it is only fair that they get theirs, too.  
Impish and Grounded? No, absolutely not. Detective and Blogger? That’s not all they are. Let’s call them, then, by the names they call themselves. Somehow those fit them best. Sherlock and John? Yes. Sherlock and John.

I’m ageing with them, maturing and growing. They transform me. I get laughter lines and stretch marks, in form of scratched furniture and cracked walls. I love it, I’m alive. I’m their home.

-

I'm a sanctuary.

-

I am a safe haven in this endless field of war. I have an identity. I’m an improvised laboratory and the occasional music hall. I’m a reprieve. Whether it’s in the morning, when they are seated across each other at their desks, typing away – one rapidly, other slowly – or in the evening, when the sofa becomes a place of cohabitation as they watch telly (well, John watches and Sherlock argues with it), it is a world of their own in here. I feel privileged for getting to see them like this – at ease, unveiled. I wonder if they know that they are a part of a whole, that they have found something rare, immensely valuable. 

At times, there are people searching through me, making a mess. They find things, material possessions. Eyes, fingers, tea, toast. But I never let them find the most important of things. They never find those mute looks and heavy silences. They never find Sherlock’s music, the one he never writes down, but composes as he plays. Sherlock’s transient compositions, played only once, and then never again. I keep them all. They never find the way John recites his Hippocratic Oath under his breath on nights when they come back covered in blood – whose exactly, I never know. John’s little scientific prayer to the deity of his profession, of all things good and true. They never find it, but I can recite it word for word.

They never find the way Sherlock leans over John’s shoulder to read (and usually object to) John’s blog entries. They don’t find those nights when Sherlock’s body gives out, and he falls asleep leaning against John, as they watch telly on the sofa. They never find the way John doesn’t mind when this happens.  
I know how to keep secrets, things of value, so they never find any of that.

They never find that one kiss. 

Maybe that’s because there isn’t one to be found, not here anyway. Still, I like to think there might be one, somewhere beyond my reach, outside my walls, where it’s not my secret to keep (although I would have, I’m good like that). Maybe it’s the dirty bricks of an alley that get to keep that one. Maybe that’s why they never find the kiss in here. Maybe it’s because it’s hidden so well they wouldn’t know where to start looking. Maybe it’s because it’s hidden in time, instead of space, the one place no one can reach – future has no lock to be broken and no windows to be shattered.

Either way, they never find it. 

(And neither do I)

-

I'm a tomb.

-

There are ghosts among my walls, echoing. One of my hearts is gone, and the other cannot beat here all alone. I am just a reminder, cruel and unkind. He feels trapped inside of  
me, like the present tense trapped in a box of memories. There are traces all over me – I wear scars and blemishes – traces of that life that used to reside between my walls. That’s alright, scars are unfeeling, just stains.

Oh, my impish one, what have you done? My brightly shining star, you’ve burnt up, not only yourself, but him, too. Let’s take away their names, shall we? After all, one is now on a tombstone, engraved and mute, and the other sounds hollow when said by itself. No names are left, not theirs and not mine. I don’t have a name - I have an epitaph.

-

I'm just a place.

221B, Baker Street, London, W1


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am currently working on a really, really long AU fic, and my brain just blanked out while writing it, so I went and watched TSOT videos...which lead to oodles of feels...which in turn lead me to pick up this old fic, dust it off and add a chapter to accomodate S3.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

* * *

 

_221B, Baker Street, London, W1_

I don’t know what I am...

* * *

 

It wasn't quite a sunrise. Sunrises were those bright, splendid things that happened in light colours and noble metals, like gold and bronze. This wasn’t it. The sky didn’t burst, didn’t even flinch, as some colour bled into it. Lining clouds with burning ink, soft infant Sun painted their lot across rooftops of a city they took by storm, in their youth – in my youth with them - in days that now hoard in that box neither of them think I know about. It was then that the tin box was first brought. Maybe it wasn’t a box at all. Maybe it wasn’t made of tin. I couldn’t see, there wasn’t enough light without a proper sunrise. But I felt it, the cold that could only be metal, and the burdened heaviness of a cramped space forced to carry too much within, that could only be a box.

Hiding it in shadows of an old hallway cupboard, they go about their days now, in an adorably oblivious conviction that I do not know what’s in it. Of course I do, I’ve known since that morning when the sunrise was really a wound in the sky. The morning when, for the first time in a too-long time, I’ve had them both under my roof, neither only a visitor, but staying.

* * *

 

I am not just a place.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t the first time he came back, that morning. He came back much earlier, while I was still empty and covered in dust. While I was still a tomb and a ghost-yard. And then he came back again, when the one I thought I’d lost came back, too. The lost one came back, and I knew it was a matter of time until I saw them both again. But while one stayed, the other one always left. He always came around again, too, but never for long, and rarely alone. There was her.

She was nice. Clever, too. But she was that much too heavy for me to bear, that one addition that caused my floorboards to whine and my windows to rattle – a disruption of my equilibrium. She was too much – I didn’t have enough space. She never stayed long, but when she left, she took him with her, and the too-heavy became too-light again. Too empty. It was taxing, that constant game of unsettling the scales. My steps groaned and my pipes gurgled rebelliously, but no one seemed to listen.

There was one night when things seemed as good as they once were. My insides rang with laughter, and those looks I always kept secret for them retured. Something else was there - a truth I always knew, but neither of them said, ever. Untill they did. I keep that  _'I don't mind'_ hidden behid the mirror above the mantel. Someday, they might look at themselves and find it again.

But then the night was out and I felt split in half. Everything was done in halves. Only one cup of tea made in the morning – a half of a pair. Only one pair of feet traversing across my floors – a half of a quartet. Only one chair in front of the fire, the other hidden away. Where? It’s a secret. Remember, I keep secrets well.

Try balancing on one foot for a very, very long time. It’s no balance at all. There’s a reason why people have two feet – leave one alone to hold all the weight for too long and after a while you will stumble and fall.

* * *

 

I am not just a place. I don’t know what I am, but maybe I’m a limbo.

 

* * *

 

So many new faces. Things were still in halves – the chairs still separated – but then a new face came, as if to fill the void. It was a wrong face, wrong pair of feet. But she didn’t stay long, and she never tried to call me her home, for which I am grateful. I think she knew she was just a guest passing time. She seemed to have been having fun, knowing she’d have to leave. And she did, soon after both of my...what did I call them? Impish and Grounded? Detective and Blogger? I don’t think that’s who they are anymore. To think that – it makes me sad.

Anyway, she left soon after the one I haven’t seen for a month came back. He was so confused, but in my eyes he was as green as my kitchen tile. Such cruel games they play with each other. They hurt each other more than anyone else ever could, and still they’re ready to kill for each other at the smallest sign of threat. So, what do I call them?

* * *

 

I am not just a place. I don’t know what I am, but I feel like a crime scene. An interrogation room.

 

* * *

 

There was blood on my carpets that night, from broken stitches. At least the chairs were back together, with another one in the middle. Almost picture perfect, but not quite. I was a crime scene for one too many crimes, not the worst of which involved the blood on the carpet. There was that heaviness again, and this time it was cold and grating, like metal wire, before it turned hot and sticky and painful. Blood doesn’t wash away easily.

In a flurry of motion, they all left, and I remembered the other times so many people were here. Those times when they were searching through me, and I hid the looks exchanged and the casual touches that were now so rare. That time when I maybe hid kisses of questionable existence was so long ago. I was so alive then.

I was an accomplice, now. The only thing I hid was evidence of crimes.

* * *

 

I am not just a place. I don’t know what I am. But I know what I’m not.

 

* * *

 

That tin I always wish to ask them about on Mondays and Fridays, that tin that is now on the nightstand, contains all crumbs of their infatuation’s childhood and chunks of its adulthood about which they don’t want to think. It hosts instants in which one was going to say ‘thank you’ but didn’t, and occasions during which both of them did things worthy of an apology. It hosts words unspoken on too many occasions, out of fear or anger or dread of time lost for good.

The morning when the sky was a wound was the morning when wounds were re-opened, but in a way that was necessary for them to heal. Two pairs of footsteps, two cups of tea. The chairs in their places. They both walked like men nursing wounds, but they were careful of each other, never bumping into each other, never touching for too long, least they cause more injury. Perhaps it helped that the box was always between them.

Dormant hours of a Sunday six weeks ago, that Sunday that will stay burnt into my brain, with all its trepidation – that’s what is in that tin. They add up to a pair who subsists in its habit of abandoning things that long ago stood full of import to them. But they might just be learning their way back to them.

They are both so close now, within a hand’s reach of each other, and yet their own hands discard fractions of them that so stubbornly fight to stay. Full of fantastic, shadowy thoughts, their minds construct a polygon on which their thoughts run chasing each other (as dogs run chasing cats – on instinct),until a switch occurs and victims turn into assailants.

But it is only thoughts that they allow to carry on with this vicious conduct, unsaid thoughts.

One puts a ban on words, this misty glass you stuck across the other’s mouth, stops any and all failings he would want to admit, just as the other’s downcast lashes act as a parasol against the first one’s radiant and brutally truthful opinions. Funny, how they’ve switched roles now. It was always the other one who could harm with words and undiluted truths, but not anymore. He is softer, in some ways that I recognise – the fall of his steps, the way he no longer stomps on my floors with a stubborn disregard. It is the softness of a man who dares not move to fast, because it hurts. A broken rib, perhaps.

We co-exist, the three of us, and it’s not like before. But it’s better than it was for a long time, even if it tastes bitter like plaster dust, and my walls go damp from the lack of usual warmth. They and I align in a syzygy of a star, a moon, and a cosmic carcass that acts as a joint habitat of two said barbarians.

I think I remember their names. I don’t think I ever forgot. But I don’t know what I am. What do they call me now?

* * *

 

I am not just a place. I don’t know what I am. But I know what I am not.

I am not a home, either.

 

* * *

 

The box on the nightstand gets heavier, and I wonder what they put in it. Again, I wonder if it’s a box at all. It’s getting heavier, but warmer, too. Perhaps the tin is too close to the hearth, stealing the warmth of the fire? But the nightstand is so far away from the hearth, rooms and rooms away.

Days pass but they still walk like wounded men, which is worrying, because they should have healed by now. Why didn’t they? Somehow I know it has to do with the fact that the box is still closed.

The box is driving me mad. I need to examine it more closely. I let my curtains billow in the drought, trying to feel its contours. I let the water droplets drip from that damp spot in the ceiling, trying to catch the sound they make upon hitting it. I find nothing. And yet, I feel I should know what it is.

If I do, maybe I'll know what to call them, again. Maybe I'll know what they call me.

* * *

 

I am not just a place. I am not a home, either.

But I would like to be.

 

* * *

 

I find out when I give up trying. One evening, I get petulant, and I refuse to keep them warm. I cut their heating and I watch them shiver and I don’t care in the slightest. I am angry and tired and nameless, so I make them shiver in the cold. And I’m glad I do.

Because the cold drives them to the fire. They sit in their chairs for as long as they can, until it’s so late that it’s already early again, and they are both too tired to stand. But one manages to stand, either way, but he doesn’t leave for bed. Instead, he walks to the bedroom – his, on the first floor, closer – and walks back out, with a swaddle of blankets. He drapes all but one over the figure in the other chair, assumedly asleep, arranging them with meticulous care.

As he stands to move away, though, a hand catches his wrist and I can feel the aching that was once something lovelier, I can feel it in my bricks the way he feels in on his skin. The hand tugs, and they end up sitting on the floor in a nest of fleece, with their back propped against the red chair. They’re close, and if they hold hands, that’s alright because the blankets tangle as much as fingers do.

And if there’s a kiss, that’s alright because the fire makes it look like a game of shadows.

So, that’s when I find out what the box is. I find out because I feel the lid slip just an inch, enough for it to betray itself.

Oh. It is not a box, after all. You must forgive me, I am old and out of practice. Literally rusty. It is not a box at all, but it felt like one, cold and heavy and tight-lidded for so long. It was even sharp, like anything with edges. You too would have mistaken it for a box.

Sharp, and cold, and heavy. So full of things unspoken. Silly me, how could I have not known it? I’ve seen it so many times before, although warmer, softer, and then broken in a way I thought was beyond repair. That’s why I didn’t expect it – one does not expect things which are presumably irreparably shattered.

I don’t know what they call me now, but I’ll call them by their names, and maybe that will mean something. Even if it doesn’t, I can’t do anything else. Not when the box isn’t really a box. Not when it is actually John’s heart, beaten up and hardened, still full of voices he refuses to sound.

I am not a home, not yet, but I am something close to that. Sherlock calls me a home, now that John’s here, but John doesn’t call me anything yet. I think he is still angry. I’d offer an apology, but I don’t know what for. He won’t tell me. He won’t tell anyone, yet. But I have a feeling he might, one day, soon.

I have them back. I have their names. Soon, I shall have my name back, too.

* * *

 

I am not a home.

But maybe, one day, I might be one again.

I think I’m getting there.

 

_221B, Baker Street, London, W1_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading :)


End file.
